


Souffle Girl Comes to Dinner

by failsafe



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguity, Domestic, Family Dinners, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failsafe/pseuds/failsafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things never happen even though they should; some things happen even though they can’t. It’s hard to say which one of those things is happening when Oswin Oswald wakes up–red dress, shoes still on–somewhere other than a hammock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souffle Girl Comes to Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Short fic in response to a prompt given to me by tumblr user claraoszwin: ""The Doctor, the Ponds, and Clara Oswald sit down to have dinner together. Rory nearly chokes on the mashed potatoes. Clara stares enviously at the flawless (secretly store bought) souffle."
> 
> I have something of a fixation with Oswin. This fic is from January, but I'm just now posting it here. First fic contribution to the Doctor Who fandom in a very long time and I'm excited to dip my toes in!

Some things never happen even though they should; some things happen even though they can’t. It’s hard to say which one of those things is happening when Oswin Oswald wakes up–red dress, shoes still on–somewhere other than a hammock. Peeking at the door across the room, just a little bit suspiciously, she notices that there is no criss-cross of boards blocking the way. A bit alarmed, she crunches up her abdomen and clutches a soft blanket over herself. Fat lot of good that’s going to do her.  
  
She tiptoes onto the floor and moves quietly across the room. A floorboard creaks and she flattens out her hands and gestures hard and fast for them to pipe down and be quiet. Looking down, she notices the wood rain and frowns at it. Pushing her long, slightly curled hair out of her way, she notices movement out of the corner of her eye. Following it with another soft, tense gasp, she catches sight of herself in a long, oval mirror.  
  
She pushes at the bounce in her hair and smooths at the frizz.  
  
"Could be worse," she comments after a moment, tilting her head a bit as she shrugs. Then she cautiously, nervously, tests her breath against her hand. She’s almost startled with the fact that it seems pretty alright, like she’s just been down for a nap–no morning breath.  
  
She’s very, very confused.  
  
When she pokes her head out the door she looks right and looks left and there’s not a sign of a Dalek anywhere. She also sees stairs and who ever heard of a Dalek preferring stairs?  
  
"Hello?!" she calls out, quite loudly. She’s afraid. She’s not used to anyone answering when she calls out for help.  
  
"Hello!" comes a reply, and she frowns because she recognizes that voice. A man. A man who asked her about souffles. She sniffs the air. She swears she can smell one. "Hello, yes! We’re down here."  
  
She hears a few footsteps bound up the stairs and she takes a chance on peeking over to see who’s below. A man in a bowtie. The Doctor.  
  
"… I’m sorry, but. Where’s _here_ exactly?” she asks, reaching up and scrubbing her fingers against her hair a bit.  
  
"Oh! Yes! Seems you took a bit of a doze. You weren’t much trouble–tiny thing you are compared to some of my friends."  
  
"Oi! Doctor, I can hear you, you know," came another familiar voice–a woman. Oswin took a few more steps to stand at the head of the stairs, foot hesitating before touching down.  
  
"It was a _compliment_ ,” the Doctor calls over his shoulder, insisting. Then he looks a bit alarmed when he realizes Oswin is actually approaching. “To both of you! … But there’s a reason we call you Legs,” he calls over his shoulder again.  
  
"Husband, have you got a sword anyplace lying around?"  
  
"No," comes the distracted reply. _Nina_ , Oswin thinks. “No! No, and I’m not getting involved. … Have I mentioned I love you?”  
  
"Come down here," the Doctor hisses, gesturing in what she imagines he thinks is a discreet way. It’s quite exaggerated for any recognizable form of discretion. "We’re invited round to dinner before we pop off to leave them to their… lives… for a bit. Was going to leave them to it, you know, but you were… in need of some care. And Rory thought–Well, anyway, I think it might be best if you come join us now."  
  
"Alright, alright," Oswin answers and in an instant she’s remembering the movement of her feet as she feels it, clambering down the stairs. It’s been so long since she’s done anything but pace in her wrecked ship. So very, very long. A year.  
  
\- - -  
  
Oswin is keenly aware of the metallic scraping of the tines of her fork against the plate. She’s turned the peas over and over and over on her plate. They’re sweet but in a funny, green sort of way. She can’t help staring at the perfect, untouched souffle. She’d tried so hard, too! How is it that this Amy gets it right when Oswin has been in the solitary confinement culinary school of the Asylum of the Daleks?  
  
She doesn’t mean to be bitter. Maybe it’s Rory-Nina who made the souffle. She tries not to wrinkle her nose at the peas. Instead she just focuses on the soft, familiar chatter between the other three people she’s sharing a meal when. Been a while since she’s done that.  
  
She glances at the souffle again and remembers something that makes her furrow her brow, hard–eggs. Something about eggs, eggs, _eggs_ …  
  
She shakes her head a bit and decides to try and find an opening in the conversation. They seem to know each other so well. The Doctor might be an alien, but they’ve got such a normal, simple, _human_ family…  
  
"I just don’t understand," the Doctor complains. " _Peas_. It doesn’t even sound like a sort of _food_."   
  
"Doctor," Amy scolds. "They _go_ with the potatoes. Right, Rory?” She nudges him with her elbow.  
  
Oswin notices they’re sitting awfully close. Like they missed each other. She wonders why that is. It seems like she ought to know.  
  
"Are you seven years old?" Rory is in the middle of murmuring as he stares at the Doctor while his wife nudges him. Then he quickly scoops up some peas and potatoes into the same intended mouthful. He promptly begins to splutter like he’s got sawdust down the throat.  
  
"Rory!" Amy calls in alarm.  
  
"Always with the Rory! Breathe!" the Doctor encourages, and almost immediately he’s on his feet, bounding to get something, and fanning Rory with a newspaper. They’ve still got those in this time period, then. Oswin thinks it smells oddly nice–paper made from trees.  
  
"Is he–" she begins to ask, widening her eyes. She’s forgotten how to respond to things like this.  
  
"I’m fine!" Rory chokes out. He’s quite dignified in the way he wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin in the middle of a rattling cough. "Just a bit of–don’t _talk_ with your mouth full,” he advises or perhaps commands the Doctor. Or everyone. Surly sometimes, that one, Oswin thinks.  
  
"… Right then," Oswin says when Nina seems settled. She knows she ought to stop, but she really does like hearing the name again, even just in her head. "I was going to ask… what _year_ is this?”  
  
"Oh, she _is_ clever,” the Doctor says gleefully, gesturing toward her and then wriggling his fingers at Amy and Rory as if he’s conducting some response out of them.  
  
Amy’s eyes widen at the Doctor and Oswin seems some longsuffering embarrassment come across both Amy and Rory’s faces that makes her laugh aloud–happily.  
  
"It’s fine," she promises.  
  
"2013–or thereabouts?" Rory suggests. "Forgot to check the paper. Not sure if we’re actually doing this in order anymore."  
  
"How’d you know it was a time machine?" Amy asks, frowning a bit.  
  
Oswin shakes her head a little and again she’s keenly aware of the weight of her hair against her shoulders. She remembers something as a little furrow tightens her brow again. Something about an attack. She feels a bit of heat on her face–like a blush, like being too close to a fire even on a cold, cold, cold night. Snow. Fire. Loud. Quiet.  
  
"… I just… guessed," she manages eventually, pointing up around the dining area a bit. "Not exactly local colour, where I’m from," she informs them more brightly.  
  
"We like it," Amy says defensively, but then she’s looking at Rory, hanging on his arm, and Oswin’s certain she’s escaped any potential wrath. She shifts her gaze to the Doctor to give them some instant of privacy and he smiles at her–stupidly happy. She returns the grin. It feels good to do that again without such a deep twinge of loneliness, living on memory and the hope for unlikely rescue alone.  
  
"You, um… have everything you need?" Rory asks after a bit, and Oswin realizes she’s being spoken to. She sits up straight and her mouth goes a little small as she considers it. She’s used to needing to answer questions very thoroughly–any _hope_ depends on it.  
  
"Yes," she says, but then she realizes that isn’t enough. "The souffle," she chimes in, looking to meet Amy’s eyes. "How do you get it _so nice_? I’ve been trying for ages, and it’s… beautiful,” she says, scowling in the most good-natured way she can manage at the untouched food in front of her.  
  
"Oh it’s… no big secret," Amy drawls out. She jabs her elbow at Rory again and pushes the souffle toward Oswin. "Would you like some? Help yourself! We’re not so polite we do courses around here."  
  
"Except on some Wednesdays," the Doctor chimes in–helpfully, Oswin presumes.  
  
"That’s just what we told you to get you to–oh, forget it," Rory murmurs. Oswin wonders if it’s a little too tense between them but after a moment she notices the smile on Rory’s lips. She eagerly takes the opportunity to go after the first serving of the souffle. She feels her mouth flood with saliva. It’s like she can’t remember the last time she really _tasted it_.  
  
\- - -  
  
Later in the evening, Oswin is shooed out of the kitchen. An attempt is made to shoo the Doctor out with her, but he adamantly refuses to let go of the short hose that sprays water in the sink. She hears a lot of chattering about _helping_ back and forth.  
  
She opens a door and takes a tentative step out into the little back garden, careful as making the first impression on untouched, perfect snow. She looks up and around at the glowing lights that remind her of home. She wonders where she meant by that. She hugs herself a bit–there’s a bite in the air but it isn’t cold.  
  
Wandering toward the table that’s set up on the grass, the wind whips back a little harder at her, blowing her dark hair back from her face. She squints against it. It’s still cool but for a second her skin feels hot and burnt and she wonders if it’s just not being used to fresh air. She presses on against it and finally decides to lower her arms down a bit.  
  
There’s a tremendous sense of relief as she does and as her arms are straightened out, only a little lifted up from her sides, she skips a bit and does a little pirouette in the grass. On the whipping, faintly swirling air she smells a sharp, beautiful twinge of autumn leaves.


End file.
